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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427697">so long, we'd become the flowers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphi/pseuds/sapphi'>sapphi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1950s vienna, 1st person pov, Abusive Family, Homophobia, Human AU, M/M, Murder, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, and they were musicians, i think more would be spoilers, wrote this for my so but u can read it too if u want</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:21:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427697</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphi/pseuds/sapphi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other, we know who our enemies are. We know. // Their souls are intertwined. Luciano’s body is six feet under and Gilbert’s will soon follow. But first...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gilbert Beilschmidt/Luciano Vargas, Prussia/2p North Italy, prussia/2p italy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>so long, we'd become the flowers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I found out that my husband died one day before our 9th anniversary. I shouldn't say husband - our relationship would still be against the law - but when you learn a man so deeply, so intimately, when you can feel his insides and thoughts as if they are your own, calling him a boyfriend or lover seems like an insult. So he was my husband, and stays my husband. I never believed in the "til death does us apart" part. <br/>
<br/>
His name is Luciano and the surname Barsotti, although we just a month ago considered changing our names somehow, make them Barsotti-Schmidt (alphabetical order). There's a ring on my finger and I know that he's wearing his too. <br/>
<br/>
They told me he committed suicide. I'm sure it would give a great rumour, what a tragedy, the uranian who was found hanging in a train. First class, booking all the seats, always. But Luciano never could tie a knot. It would always come off easily. And he wouldn't have killed himself. He saw it as weak. <br/>
<br/>
People don't kill themselves in a train.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
We met in Vienna. Me a violinist, flute player, pianist, I could learn anything. My parents had hope I would become a composer, maybe play in an orchestra, and I didn't disappoint. My husband taught me. I would stay after class and he would show me new works, ask me to play them - he was older than I was, just a little, but he was a genius. He had his first full hall when he was nineteen. And he was a god, a full god. Omnipotent. Omnipresent. The love of my life and the love of my death, he was the kind that imprinted himself on every part of myself. My soul, my body. If I were to remove him from me I would have to burn all of me and then my ashes and smoke.<br/>
<br/>
My parents gave me a burn wound when I told them that. They always have been quite pragmatic people with no appreciation of metaphors.<br/>
<br/>
Luciano agreed to let me live with him. A kind man, he never mentioned my family after that, except in our bad moments. He would stroke my hair and kiss my cheek, eye, shoulder. And, just like when he first saw me after that, he would apply nice soothing cold cream, minus the little hospital visit. I always said that it didn't hurt, and he would say I was lying, and maybe I was. Luciano said that I was safe with him. <br/>
<br/>
We worked together, he still taught me until one day I was good enough to play with him in those grand gold halls that looked like they were made of porcelain. I had graduated from a valued school for musicians and composers; I had been trained by an old testament god; I had halls of dreams and a bedroom of love, his love. I had everything. And I have lost it.<br/>
<br/>
Now our apartment feels empty. It's a cold corpse and the sun never shines quite as bright and golden as it did when he was alive. I told him I had a bad feeling back then, but he dismissed it so I did too. I have been wondering if I should have went with him. He said he wanted me to die with him. I will grant him that, after one last thing.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
I realise that wish of his may sound macabre, but when your whole life is one big pit of blackness and blades, you begin to see a beauty in it. Luciano was an only child, like me; he didn't have parents but a grandfather. When he was 18, he inherited everything from him. Even a house in Italy, at the coastline on a mountain that looks like a cliff. We went there once, twice actually, before selling it. Bad memories. I'm not sure if he meant his grandfather, parents or our first vacation there, because the latter isn't a bad memory. It's a painful one, but that can be lovely. It's lovely to me. <br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
I'm not a cop. But I decide to find out where certain people live. Luciano and I weren't too subtle about our relationship, and I more or less vividly remember attacks. During practice, mostly, and some at our old apartment. Attempted arson, broken windows. <br/>
<br/>
When I ask for the current location of four people (there were more but what can you do when the police is incompetent), the woman in the city hall reception looks at me like I've lost my mind. <br/>
<br/>
"I legally can't give you this kind of information."<br/>
<br/>
"But it's urgent."<br/>
<br/>
"It's still illegal." And concerning, she seems to think. I get out my wallet. She quickly changes her mind.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
In the 26 years of my life I never had to worry about anything financial. You could say my family is, or rather was, corrupt and had a history of exploitation. Junker, land owners, factory owners, from Hamburg to down here in Vienna. Military. Things that got them into trouble after the war, things that a little bribery and paying fines could fix. If I were still part of it I could use that influence. But since I'm not, I'm left with my and Luciano's money. <br/>
<br/>
I urged him to write a testament a few years ago. His and mine were mirrors. We would share everything after death. House, wealth, graves. His bones next to mine. Only mine. Not some whore he found after a fight and brought into our house at 2 am with a smile that could cut through skin and ribs. But I could never hate him, he was my sun and water; he could hurt me and I could hurt him back but I never, never hated him, because that's what love is. Fight and fuck and kiss. Wash the sheets, wash your face, go on with your routine until you repeat it. <br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
Back at home, I put the list of the places my suspects live in on my desk. I reach into a cupboard, past the jar full of plate shards, and take a map. It already has Luciano's way from that day on it. To the train station and the route of the train itself. I have asked people if they saw him the morning, if they saw someone else with him. Just him, they all said.<br/>
<br/>
I scratch one of the names. Too far away to have seen Luciano. Maybe he waited for him? But Luciano would have noticed, he would have told someone. <br/>
<br/>
The apartment is so cold. To think that his last words were to anyone but me - the murderer, a worker on the train or at the station, insignificant small talk. I told him I loved him that morning. I whispered it when I saw him in a delirious sleepy state last night.<br/>
<br/>
His funeral will be this week. I don't have much time left.<br/>
<br/>
I wish we could be buried in Italy. I liked the sun, even though it scorched me, and the gentle sound of waves made me fall asleep every night, even in the later ones when my husband said he didn't like the way I looked at the neighbor.<br/>
<br/>
"What way?" I asked.<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I mean, Gilbert." I hate my full name.<br/>
<br/>
"Like what? Like the way you look at that other violinist?" He threw a plate in my direction; I stepped aside and it hit the wall. "Are you crazy?" He threw another, so I went to him, I grabbed his wrist, pushed him. His head against the lamp. I don't remember if it bled. What I do remember is that he was really angry, and I said that I could leave him, I could ruin him. Oh, I have photographs. I have his letters. Teacher seduces student, how does that sound? How does that sound, blood on your hands, your reputation in shambles? I don't give a shit about mine, I would do this, I--<br/>
<br/>
I discard the memory. I could use a train to get to one of the names before 6. Before I leave, I grab a paper to write down a note so I won't forget to burn the photos and letters before the end of this week.<br/>
<br/>
But they're so wonderful. Like everything he touched and wrote. He calls me bunny, Hase, because he says I'm small and soft and want to fuck and then cuddle. I notice that I'm smiling. Oh, Luci.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
The flat is empty. Strangely enough. It's past the man's working hour by now, his neighbours can confirm it, yet once I'm inside (the lock is cheap, so is the door) there's nobody. The kitchen smells like trash.<br/>
<br/>
I put a question mark next to his name.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
The other two aren't very helpful either. I visit them the next day; one is bedridden from an accident at work, the other says nothing useful even after a few threats. I roll my eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"I told you- I don't know what happened, I haven't seen your friend--"<br/>
<br/>
"Husband. You knew back when you tried to lit our kitchen on fire, didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"That was two years ago! What the fuck would I care about your fuckbuddy--"<br/>
<br/>
His bones give a pleasant crack as i break one hand. I ask again, and again he gives no answer. I try his arm, I get out a knife and tell him if he killed him and he confesses to the police I won't have to harm him and that he will be okay, but he still denies having even seen Luciano. So I believe him. "If you tell the police, I'll do more than break some bones." And he believes me.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
The next day is frustrating in an empty way. Sickening. My dreams are of sweet music and salty air. <br/>
<br/>
We had the same dreams occasionally. I have them written down; neat notebooks, without a single day missing, even when we were apart for a night or two. Which rarely happened. I like to think that it's not because Luciano trusted me too little. He was scared once, yes, after that night I told him I could leave him. It was flattering. The panic, the tremor in his voice, loud and commanding in a way that wasn't confident.<br/>
<br/>
He said he would make sure I wouldn't leave, and he found rope, but Luciano never could tie a knot. It was cute, the way he had so much faith in his abilities that he didn't even lock the door and just stayed next to me. The knot loosened just from a little moving. It was unintentional from my side. I still wonder if it was unintentional from his too. But I tied it again, a real knot, around my wrist and the bedframe, that night and the next and every time his paranoid phases returned. <br/>
<br/>
For his birthday I wanted to give him handcuffs. It would have been such a nice inside joke, and a pragmatist one at that.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
Three days left. I'm becoming fidgety. I don't know if I want to break my promise, but I don't know if I could die knowing someone would live on unpunished, with his blood forever staining him. And I don't even have any idea what else to look for- I haven't seen his body, I haven't seen any wounds. I could only do that at the funeral, which I can't attend because I can't wait so long and his testament failed to mention that I would organise it, meaning some damn aunt and uncle he never told me about did what <em>I</em> am supposed to do. It's my right - it should have been. I should have been yhe first to embrace his cold real body, take his face in my hands, killed myself right there. <br/>
<br/>
I throw my coffee paper cup against the wall of the train cabin. And feel guilty right after; I grab my tissues to wipe the drink away from the wall and ceiling and.<br/>
<br/>
The ceiling. I can reach the ceiling without much ado. <br/>
<br/>
I take my suitcase; I don't need more to reach the ceiling with my head. Luciano was tall. Luciano is tall. He wouldn't be able to fucking hang in here, no matter what the police's photos say- he can't hang here. He couldn't, can't, won't.<br/>
<br/>
The lady at the city hall hands over the named and address of Luciano's relatives for the price of a new car.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
They're like a family. A fucking picture perfect family, portrait model material, traitors in a garden, such a lovely painting motive. Husband and wife arm in arm and their pseudo prodigal son in the chair next to them.<br/>
<br/>
And I promised to kill whoever was responsible for his death, didn't I?<br/>
<br/>
I shoot them. What else is there to say? This is Luciano's story, my husband's story, why should I care about them? I don't give a shit what their last thought or expression was. This is about him and me, this is about devouring each other like we're fucking wild animals.<br/>
<br/>
It has been such a long time since we have fought. Bruising, bleeding; he pins me down and yells something but I don't hear. I claw at his skin, kick and bite, until I can free my hand and hit my gun against his head. He gives a pained sound and lets go.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Luci. Luci, Luci, Luci." I know how to comfort him, and I give half an attempt. There's blood on his face. I kiss his cheek and lick some of it away, pressing the gun against his chest because that's where he hurt me. "What was this about?"<br/>
<br/>
"A test."<br/>
<br/>
"A fucking test?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wanted to see how far you would go."<br/>
<br/>
His voice is hypnotising. I kiss his jaw, "How did you do it."<br/>
<br/>
"Your parents. I told them if you believed I died, you would come back to them. We convinced my aunt and uncle to pretend the body was mine."<br/>
<br/>
"Of course you did."<br/>
<br/>
"I would have come back, Gil. You know me. I needed a fresh start, I needed you to be believable, I was about to tell them I needed to send you a letter. I have it written already, don't you believe me? I wanted to come back. The police would think it was a misunderstanding. They will see I'm alive." He reaches up, strokes my hair in a way he knows I love. I melt like wax. "I'll stay, don't even dare doubting that. You know there's nobody else like me." I know. I know. "And what would you do, if I left? There's nobody else. I'm the only one who knows how to love you. And you're the only one who can love me. Let's go, Gil. I want to leave this place."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay."<br/>
<br/>
We use the train back home. First class. Booking all of the seats in the cabin. <br/>
<br/>
"Have you burned the..."<br/>
<br/>
"Your love letters? The pictures of us fucking? No."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't trust me."<br/>
<br/>
"I like them. And you won't leave me. What reason do I have?" I can see what he's thinking. He thinks I'm insane. Deranged. Dangerous. He can see that I am going to cuff him to our bed at night and lock the door every night. But beneath this all. He's beautiful, we are old testament gods, he is the other half of my universe. He is the love of my life, light of my life, my only love, my forever love. And. He's right about one thing. "We match." Both fucked up, both a mess. Both each other's past present future. <br/>
<br/>
He kisses me. My gun against his head, his hands around my throat, around my waist. I love you, I love you too. I shoot, the end to our symphony, starting the moment he touched my hands to lead my fingers on the piano and finishing here. I close my eyes. And for all of eternity, we will stay like this. <br/>
<br/>
One.<br/>
<br/>
Two.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
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